


DJ Altynyn

by womanroaring



Series: How Otayuri might happen [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: DJ Otabek Altin, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-09-26 15:37:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9909029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/womanroaring/pseuds/womanroaring
Summary: Yuri visits Kazakhstan for the first time, to help Otabek celebrate his 21st.It's supposed to be a BFF thing but Otabek's mischievous DJing friends cause ... complications.





	1. Content

 

Otabek had turned 21 near the end of the Grand Prix qualifiers that year. He had qualified for the final, which meant that, as ever, training had to take priority over his birthday; but this year, Yuri was flying back to Almaty with him immediately after the competition, to help him celebrate.

Nationals were practically upon them, so Yakov had told him he could have precisely three days and no more. Yuri had chosen to interpret this as not including travel time.

It was going to be his first time in Kazakhstan.

The main club that Otabek DJed at (well, “DJ Altynyn” did anyway; someone who Yuri still couldn’t reconcile with his own friend, Kazakhstan’s top figure skater) had planned a celebration of sorts for him. The owner was going to cordon off one of the function areas for him and had handed him a huge pile of VIP passes to give to anyone he wanted. Otabek had saved one for Yuri.

Beka was still expected to do a set, since it was his night for it, but that would only be for 45 minutes.

Yuri was looking forward to seeing it.

This was despite the fact that Yuri had been clubbing precisely twice and hadn’t really seen the appeal. Mila had taken him for his 18th birthday, eight months earlier; and they had also gone after one of the qualifying cups, with Emil Nekola and some of the other skaters.

It had been ok. But he had felt a bit young, somehow, even though he was now officially old enough to be there. These places had their own language, one that he didn’t really speak yet; and he also understood that a large part of their charm was lost on him, since he had no interest in drinking himself stupid, or in ending up in a dark corner with a stranger (though he’d had several offers, both times).

He hoped nightclubs in Almaty would be different.

They arrived at Otabek’s flat late at night, after their taxi ride from the airport. Yuri had originally offered to stay at a hotel, worried he would be imposing, but Otabek had dismissed the suggestion, stating that Yuri should only feel the need to do that if his little apartment wasn’t going to be comfortable enough for him.

Even though Beka had been teasing, it almost felt like a test, when he put it like that.

When Otabek opened the door, Yuri had a bit of a weird déjà-vu-but-not moment. He’d seen Beka’s living room loads of times in the background when they chatted on Skype, but only one section.

He ended up staring around like a kid.

The table in the corner -- something he’d never seen, since it was where the laptop usually sat, while they video-called -- was covered in crates of music and equipment; headphones and cables and flyers. A pair of motorcycle helmets were lying next to his laptop, and several pairs of boots were on the floor, too. Some sort of woven wallhanging was up on the wall over the lot. Yuri assumed that it must have been some traditional thing yet it didn’t remotely look out of place with all the coolness that was Otabek’s flat. It looked exotic and proud.

There was a big bookcase stuffed with books and nick-nacks, and a comfortable-looking couch.

Yuri noticed that the place smelt like Otabek.

Yuri’s eyes finally lit on a rucksack with ice skates sticking out the top, and he felt slightly more grounded.

He realized Otabek had been talking to him. Something about checking if he was hungry or did he want to go straight to sleep.

Given that he had just completely spaced out, Yuri went with sleep, so Otabek took him through to the bedroom.

“You’re taking my bed while you’re here. I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”

Yuri glanced back at the living room. He only noticed now that the sofa had a quilt and a pillow stacked on it already.

“I can’t kick you out of your own bed!” He protested, but Otabek just smiled.

“Well, you are,” he said. “Not your fault I don’t have a spare room. I changed the sheets this morning, they’re clean, I promise.” He placed Yuri’s suitcase on a chair in the corner, and went on, like the matter was settled, “the bathroom’s just behind you. Did you want to have a shower or anything, before you go to sleep?”

Yuri did feel a bit gross. He nodded. Otabek gave him a towel and left him to it.

As he snuggled into Otabek’s bed, which was surprisingly comfy, he allowed himself a small smile. He was here, in Almaty, with his best friend, and they had almost three whole days to spend together. No Yakov nagging him, none of his rink mates annoying him, no Yuri’s angels stalking him. Just Beka.

He fell asleep that night like a contented cat.


	2. Nervous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri's first real day in Almaty. He and Otabek do friend and skater things. 
> 
> I had to do so much reading about Almaty for this chapter. I don’t think I’ve ever researched so much for a fic. Please let me know (kindly) if you noticed me stuff anything up.
> 
> Айналайын - "precious one".

If Yuri had fallen asleep like a contented cat, he woke up hissing like a cranky one.

If cats swore in Russian rather than hissed.

Someone was shaking his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Otabek said, looking like he was trying not to grin. “I was knocking but you didn’t seem to be hearing me.”

Yuri blinked at him for a second.

“How is it morning already?” he finally asked, groggily grabbing up his phone, wondering why the alarm hadn’t gone off.

It turned out that the battery had died overnight; he had plugged it into the charger, but in his sleepiness hadn’t actually plugged the charger itself into the electrical socket.

He waved the plug at Otabek by way of explanation, rolling his eyes at himself.

“Useful,” Otabek said, his mouth quirking. “I made eggs for breakfast. Come and eat or we’ll be late.”

They were going to the rink early, to train. Yuri was looking forward to it; he wanted to see Beka’s rink, skate on the ice he practiced on. Afterwards, Otabek was going to take him sightseeing, then for a run, then they were going to his family’s house for dinner before going out that night.

The training rink was fairly new; Almaty Ice Palace had been opened just over a year ago, for the last Universiade (Otabek had won the gold*; Yuri had been very proud).

Yuri slid out onto the ice, gauging the feel of it under his skates. Otabek’s coach seemed to plan on simply ignoring Yuri the whole time and just let him get on with it, in the section of the rink they’d designated as “his” for the morning. This was fine by Yuri, since training without Yakov glaring at him, or screaming at him for the tiniest mistakes, was always like a special treat.

He also got to practice jumps he was still working on and insecure about in peace. Bliss.

And, sure, he loitered around a bit too, watching Otabek running over step sequences, and admiring the strength and masculinity he managed to convey in the movements of his arms and hands, until Otabek yelled over at him, “Stop scoping out your competition and get back to your quad loops!”

Afterwards, he and Otabek showered and changed; and then Otabek handed him a chicken sandwich before he could even finish asking if they were going to get something to eat.

“This is good,” Yuri said, when he came up for breath, three-quarters of the way through.

“The secret is salt,” Otabek said, tapping his nose with his finger as he finished off his own one. “Don’t tell anyone.”

They went riding around the city after that, Otabek pointing out crazy old churches, and statues, and interesting buildings. They had Korean for lunch, which was new for Yuri as well as delicious; and went for a walk.

That was when Yuri saw it, on the side of some boring government building.

“What is _that_?” He asked, grabbing Otabek’s arm.

“It’s… Almaty’s coat of arms,” Otabek said, before he realized what exactly had piqued Yuri’s interest. “Featuring a snow leopard,” he added.

“Take a picture!” Yuri managed to gasp out, thrusting his phone at his friend and then running over to the raised seal.

His smile was so candid and excited as he posed, Otabek ended up smiling too. “I have something else to definitely show you on the way home, then,” he said, as he handed back Yuri’s phone and watched him upload the pic (#snowleopard #almatycoatofarms).

They rode back to Otabek’s apartment via Republic Square, pulling over so that Yuri could try to get a shot of the Golden Warrior on top of his winged snow leopard, on the Independence Monument.

They’d barely been back on the road for two blocks, however, when Yuri tapped on Otabek’s arm, motioning for him to pull over again.

“Can we stop in there?” Yuri asked, pointing at a florists shop. Otabek looked at him questioningly, and Yuri looked everywhere but at Otabek, explaining, “The magazine on the plane said I need to get something for your mother. To give to her at dinner tonight.”

Otabek was quiet for a moment. “She’ll like that,” he said finally. “I’ll get something as well,” he added.

When they got back to Otabek’s flat (Yuri determinedly not looking at the bedding on the couch, which was making him feel guiltier by the minute), they put the flowers they’d picked out in water before going for their run.

It was two degrees out, so they had to wear layers and mittens and beanies. Yuri quickly plaited his hair (it was down past his shoulders blades, now) in the hopes that it wouldn’t end up a gross mess by the time they got back; but no such luck.

It bothered him so much while they made a post-run snack (banana and peanut butter shakes, which Otabek _knew_ were Yuri’s favourite) that even though he told Otabek to take the first shower, since he was going to need time to dry his long hair, Otabek insisted he go first. Like the gentleman he was.

The thing was, Yuri really, really didn’t want to look like complete crap when he met Otabek’s family. And he definitely wanted to look good when he met all of Beka’s cool friends at the club tonight.

He didn’t especially want to investigate why it was so important to him, it just was, and it was all making him more nervy than he wanted to admit. He’d set too fast a pace during their run because of the restless energy building in him (Otabek had eventually asked him to slow down a touch; Yuri had told him it served him right for having those big muscles weighing him down). He’d almost smacked straight into several obstacles in their path because he was distracted.

At one point, he also slipped on an icy bit of path. He hadn’t had a chance to be embarrassed, though, because after Otabek let him go (he had grabbed him to stop him from falling) they’d ended up chuckling at the irony of him slipping on ice.

Yuri finished drying his hair, thinking about Otabek’s eyes when he chuckled, and then his shoulders finally slumped at his next problem.

He really had no idea what to wear to a proper home-cooked family dinner. In Kazakhstan.

His first instinct was to yell for Beka to come in and help him pick an outfit but immediately rejected the idea of calling out to his friend while he was just wearing a towel.

So, he pulled on some jeans and a top and _then_ yelled for him.

“I’m finished in the bathroom. But you have to tell me what to wear to this dinner.”

Otabek wandered over, looking at him. “It’s not a performance,” he said finally. “It’s not a -- a business dinner. It’s my family. What you’re wearing is fine. And it will be fine for the club. We can go out straight from my parent’s place.”

Yuri gaped at him for another second or two -- the clubs he had been to so far had been _so fancy_ , they must really do things differently at this place Beka DJed at -- and then stomped over to his suitcase and yanked out two hoodies, a denim jacket and a boring semi-formal jacket he hated. He held up a hoodie and his denim jacket up to Beka mutely for approval.

Normally he always knew what he wanted to wear. But this was the second time in a week he was doing this. He had texted Otabek when he was packing, to ask him what people wore to clubs in Almaty. Otabek had unhelpfully texted back that he was sure whatever Yuri picked would be fine. Yuri had not found this sufficient so had sent him a picture of his latest attempt at clubbing, with the caption, “Mila made me wear this last time.”

He was wearing a fishnet shirt that she had pulled out of one of his costumes, with a big silver pendant on a cord, and skinny black jeans tucked into boots covered in buckles.

She had lent him short leather fingerless gloves with studs on the back, too, from one of her own costumes, which he had taken one look at and shamelessly begged to keep. She had traded them for the right to do something complicated with Yuri’s hair and permission to put eye make-up on him.

Yuri had actually liked the theatrics of it; the idea that clubbing was some sort of a performance made him more comfortable.

When Beka finally replied to his message (it had taken a while, but Yuri had just figured he was busy doing more important things than dealing with his stupid freak out over wearing the right thing), he had just said, “Wear something like that if you like, but most people won’t be anywhere near that dressed up.”

“Just tell me what to fucking wear” Yuri had written back. He had considered adding something flippant about not wanting to embarrass Beka in front of all his cool DJ friends, but he would have died before admitting it so those thoughts stayed in an inarticulate jumble in his head.

Beka messaged him back with “I’ll probably just wear something like this” and sent a picture of himself and some friends in jeans and dark shirts, like it was their freaking uniform.

Yet Beka didn’t wear it like a uniform. He just looked like himself, comfortable in his own skin and self-assured.

Even now, after a run and waiting to take a shower, he looked so collected and cool. Or possibly that was the little smile he had playing about his mouth. Yuri was so busy looking at it, he almost missed Beka’s answer.

“That will really be _fine_ , Yura. Now, I won’t take as long as _some_ people in the shower, so we should be ready to leave soon, ok?”

Yuri stuck his tongue out in response, and spent the next little while wandering around Beka’s lounge room. He hadn’t had a good chance to look at it yet. He continued to steadfastly not look at the couch as he did things like run his hands along the spines of Beka’s books and flick through a crate of vinyl records he found on the floor. He noticed a few Otabek teddies tucked into nooks and crannies -- one of his more creative fans made him a new one with almost each new costume Beka wore**, and Yuri congratulated himself at recognizing them all. He was peering into a glass cabinet tucked in a corner, full of medals and certificates and so on, when Otabek came out of the bathroom, clean-shaven and in his “uniform” of a dark top and dark jeans.

Yuri felt almost calm again.

Until they arrived at Otabek’s parents house.

Otabek’s father was away on a business trip, so they were going to be dining with Otabek’s little sister, his mother and his mother’s parents.

Beka had described it as though it was nothing. Yuri couldn’t tell if he’d done that to try and make it seem that way to Yuri or if he genuinely didn’t understand that such a thing wouldn’t be nothing to him.

He tensed right up as Mrs Altin opened the door, hugging her son and putting an arm around Yuri as she ushered him in, saying how nice it was to actually meet him in person. He and Otabek handed her the flowers they’d bought and she got all flustered as she thanked them. They followed her through the lounge area, Otabek kissing his grandparents hello while Yuri waved a hand awkwardly at them (they were sitting on the couch, watching television) and into the kitchen as she went hunting for vases.

They passed a lot of family photos as they went through, some with a young Otabek, which Yuri wanted to stop and stare at but didn’t want to be caught stopping and staring at, and others that were more up to date. There was one of Otabek shaking the hand of someone Yuri recognized as possibly being Kazakhstan’s president, and one of him holding up his gold medal on the podium at the Universiade.

Those last two had pride of place, but there were other recent ones too, and Yuri was startled to see his own scowling face in some of them, either sharing a podium with Otabek or just at his side at a press conference or other official event.

A small person ran at Otabek as they got into the kitchen area and was hoisted up into his arms with an _oof_. “You are getting so big _айналайын_ , I’m not going to be able to do this much longer,” Otabek said with a little smile. The small person merely shrugged and climbed around on to his back, peering at Yuri over Otabek’s shoulder. “Say hello to Yuri, Masha,” he added.

“Hello!” She said. “I really liked your last free skate costume,” she added unexpectedly. “The sleeves looked really nice when they moved. I drew a picture of it for you. Do you want to see?”

Yuri blinked at her a few times. “Ok?” He said.

Masha wiggled and Otabek put her down. She scampered off.

“My darling girl,” Mrs Altin said fondly. “She wishes she saw more of her big brother,” she added, looking at Otabek sideways, who conspicuously didn’t notice the comment. “How are you finding that little apartment of his, Yuri?” She said, but Yuri was spared answering this pointed question by the return of Masha, who shoved a drawing in his face.

It was more or less identifiable as him, but his hair was Rapunzel-esque it was so long, twirling around him as he did some sort of spin.

“See?” She said, pointing at the arms of the figure she’d drawn. “I made the sleeves really fluttery. It’s for you!” She added in a louder voice, because her mother seemed to have switched from guerilla tactics to just plainly nagging her son. At least, that’s what Yuri assumed -- she’d switched from Russian to Kazakh, so he couldn’t actually understand what she was saying, but the tone gave her away.

Otabek wasn’t saying anything at all, just looking at her with a very patient look on his face, like he knew she just needed to get it out of her system.

“Come see my room!” Masha said impatiently, grabbing Yuri’s arm and dragging him along in her wake.

The second he got there he did a double take.

She had a wall -- a whole wall -- of plushies. He couldn’t even hazard a guess of how many were there. They were mostly teddy bears, but there were also a lot of toy flowers, some snow leopards and the odd cat (fans -- including some of his own angels -- had started throwing those at Otabek sometimes, since it was known that he and Yuri were friends).

It had never occurred to Yuri that Otabek actually had someone to give all of (well, _some_ of) the stuffed toys that got thrown to him at each performance. Yuri usually kept a few special ones and then gave the rest to Yakov, who organized drop offs from the team at particularly children’s hospitals or charities, in whichever city they were in.

Masha showed him all her favourite ones (they were on her bed) and then her scrapbook of media clippings of her brother. Again, Yuri was in there more than once; he flushed to see she had a particular magazine spread that Sports Illustrated had done of the three medalists after the Worlds last year. It seemed a bit … adult for an 11-year-old’s collection. He and Otabek and Yuuri were wearing open or half-open shirts and their hair was artfully mussed.

He was busy looking at Otabek’s serious mouth in one shot when Masha said, “ooh, and look, I kept this one because you were in it!” to see a spread from Russian Vogue, of the top Russian skaters likely to qualify for Pyeongchang.

He was topless in those.

He made her put the book away after that.

Masha was plaiting Yuri’s hair on the bed by the time Otabek came to find them.

“There you two are,” he said with a little smile, pulling out his phone to commemorate the occasion. Yuri smirked and threw up two fingers.

“Don’t move!” Masha chided. “I’m almost finished!”

“Good, because we’re supposed to be at the table in five minutes. Now, Yuri -- my mother wanted to make a traditional dinner for you, so we’re having besbarmak. It’s made with horse meat.”

Yuri nodded, wondering why Otabek was looking at him like that. He was about to ask him when it twigged. “I’ve eaten horse before,” he said. “Grandpa likes it sometimes.”

“Ok then,” Otabek said. “You just don’t know how many weird looks I got in America and Canada whenever the topic came up.”

“Well, I’m Russian, so screw them,” Yuri said, to which Otabek motioned at his sister, his eyebrows raised. Luckily she didn’t seem to be listening, as she cried out, “finished!” with a flourish, and jumped up to get Yuri a hand mirror.

It had mermaids on it. Yuri ignored them.

Apart from a flower that she’d woven into the side, she had given him a perfectly good hairstyle, with some smaller plaits on one side and a weird twisty bit on the other, with a sort of half-bun pulling up some of his hair at the back, and the rest down. He looked a bit like a Viking or something.

He pulled the flower out and put it behind her ear. “Perfect,” he said, and she clapped her hands happily before dragging them both by the hands to the dinner table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Denis Ten won the gold at this event, btw, and since Beka is his YOI stand-in…
> 
> **The Otabek teddy we see in episode 12 is actually based on Denis Ten teddies that a particular fan of his makes for him. Ten loves the hell out of them, apparently. As you would.
> 
> In other notes, this chapter bloody killed me. It was originally heaps longer, because I kept writing all this detail from my research that just didn’t need to be there, so I’d end up cutting out entire paragraphs. I feel like I managed a sensible pace but again, please (kindly) let me know if it seems rushed or, alternatively, if it seems like I included too much detail (for instance, there is genuinely a florists within blocks of the Independence Monument. This is the level of research I did when I could have been doing things like, oh, facing up to my adult responsibilities…).
> 
> Also, yes, I went with the fanon convention that Beka has a little sister, and I couldn’t resist her braiding Yuri’s hair because not only are there million of bits of fanart of that BUT because -- did everyone see the Yurio sketches posted by one of animators, of Yurio’s hair full of bows after the Nishigori triplets plaited his hair? SO CUTE. As far as I’m concerned that means it’s practically CANON that Yurio allows small children to play with his hair.


	3. Satisfied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we have dinner. Then clubbing. And mischievous friends.

There was so much food at dinner, you’d have thought that Mrs Altin had expected 20 people, not six. There were fried buns and rice dishes and salads and sausage as well as the besbarmak. Since Yuri was a sucker for carbs and meat together, however, Mrs Altin was not disappointed with the appetite that he brought to the table.

“We’re going to need to eat so many vegetables tomorrow,” Otabek murmured to Yuri.

“You can,” Yuri said, chomping into another baursak.

When everyone was finished, Otabek insisted on clearing the table. Yuri jumped up to help him.

“All ok?” Yuri asked, gesturing with his head back towards the living area, and Otabek’s mother. “With your mother.”

Otabek nodded, starting to fill the dishwasher. “All ok. She was just worried because I deferred another college semester. It’s the Olympics next year, I don’t know what she expected me to do. My studies, I can delay. The games, not so much.”

“Did -- was she hinting that she wanted you to move back home?”

One of Otabek’s eyebrows raised by a fraction; it was as close as he ever came to rolling his eyes. “She always wants me to move back home. She thinks it will be easier for me; that I can focus on skating and studying and she’ll take care of everything else.”

“You don’t want to live here?” Yuri asked. He’d wondered for a while now why Otabek didn’t live with his family; it felt good to ask.

Otabek looked at him for a second, like he was choosing his words, but in the end, his tone was light. “I was away too long, Yura. I got very used to doing everything for myself. I did try living here, when I came back to Almaty when I was 17. It didn’t suit. I needed -- more space. And even though they make an effort, my parents don’t really understand our life. They don’t get basic things like our training hours or -- or what we have to eat, and when, that sort of thing.”

Yuri nodded thoughtfully. He couldn’t actually imagine living in a family environment after all these years, either. The idea of a mother trying to mollycoddle or dictate to him sounded so foreign and intrusive, especially if it was going to prevent him from performing at his best. And yet Otabek sounded so understanding and patient, when he talked about his mother’s point of view. Yuri wanted to say something but didn’t know what.

Otabek’s friend Sergey, who was also a DJ, came to pick them up shortly after that. They had ridden Otabek’s bike over to his parent’s place but, since the manager of the club had made it clear that he would be insulted if Otabek spent his 21st birthday party sober, now that he was finally legal to drink in his bar, Sergey had offered to give them a lift.

Sergey, it transpired, was vaguely ridiculous. Quite deliberately, as far as Yuri could tell. He was _not_ dressed in Otabek’s uniform of jeans and a dark shirt but in dark red leather pants and a very tight white singlet that left Yuri in no doubt that he worked out.

“I like your hair, Yuri,” he had said, as they set off. Yuri wasn’t sure if he was serious, or teasing him, or even flirting, so he had just said, “Masha did it,” in reply, and Sergey had spent the next minute or two chatting about how cute Otabek’s little sister was, before telling Yuri all about his own three sisters, and the next thing he knew, they were getting out of the car.

When they got in the bar, they were immediately surrounded by several of Otabek’s other friends as well as a very large man in a suit that Yuri quickly worked out was the manager, Ivan. He was patting Otabek on the back in an avuncular fashion.

“You’re a man now, son,” he was saying, “and I finally won’t have to worry about one of my best DJs drinking while he’s underage. Speaking of which -- your friend here with all the gold medals. He is just 18, yes?”

Otabek nodded. Ivan fixed Yuri with a steely gaze, then tapped Yuri’s arm band with his finger. It was blue, instead of the red one Beka was wearing; the signal to the bar staff that he was old enough to get in, but not old enough to drink.

“My boy,” Ivan said, “don’t you even fucking _think_ about drinking in my place, ok? Altin’s skating fans take a million pictures of him every night and there’s no way they won’t snap it. I don’t need social media to be full of pictures of the famous Russian boy shit-faced at my club, da?”

“Got it,” Yuri said, deadpan, thinking how unlikely that would be. Ivan seemed satisfied, and patted Otabek on the shoulder once more before telling them to enjoy their night, and disappearing.

Yuri only processed what Ivan had said after he left. “Fans?” He asked Otabek warily. Otabek smiled at him, and turned him around with an arm around his shoulder.

“They usually arrive early, and sit there, in that corner by the bar,” he said, “and they’re fine.”

Yuri looked. About a dozen people were sitting in one of the lounge areas, and that had to be the group Otabek was talking about because the other lounges were empty. They looked perfectly normal, just sitting around, drinking and laughing, with nothing to differentiate them from everyone else at the club.

And unlike Yuri’s Angels, they weren’t even all girls.

A few of them noticed Otabek pointing them out to Yuri and waved, looking pleased. Otabek waved back and after a second or two, Yuri tilted his head and raised a hand back, then turned away, feeling shy all of a sudden.

“See? Nothing to worry about.” Beka said in his ear. Yuri nudged him with his shoulder in response.

Otabek’s friends were also nothing to worry about, it transpired. They were all friendly and clearly wanted him to be at ease, dancing with him, or bringing him (non-alcoholic) drinks and handing him lollipops, which were apparently some sort of necessary accessory if you weren’t drinking. Since Yuri loved sweets as much as he loved carbs with meat, this was fine by him.

They all made him feel so at home, Yuri didn’t even feel weird being left with them while Beka went to set up; he just gave him a thumbs up.

And then the whole club seemed to head to the dancefloor, because DJ Altynyn was up.

Beka’s set was so _cool_. It was like he knew what the room wanted, and just how they wanted him to give it to him. There were tracks that got faster and faster, peaking just before something soothing and repetitive came on. Then he did it all over again. Some songs sounded middle eastern and others sampled American hip hop and there was one that Sergey told him had started life as chart-topping K-pop before it had been taken apart.

Yuri danced and danced.

This was so much better than the other clubs he’d been to.

Then Beka was talking into the PA system, which he hadn’t done since he took the booth, to say a Spartan “hello” to the crowd (which they had screamed at).

“This is the last of my set,” he was saying. “It’s for my friend Yuri. Enjoy your night, everyone.”

Yuri looked up, startled. What song could Beka be dedicating to him?

As it turned out, the skating fans recognized it before Yuri did, from their cheers. It was the same one he’d used for his short program this year, but it had been -- well, Yuri didn’t know the terminology, but it had been broken down into parts and looped and layered in such a way that it was just cool as _fuck_ , now. It belonged here, in the low light, with people dancing up against each other to it.

He could feel the beat of it in his chest, getting his heart to race, and he looked up to see Beka watching him.

Yuri gave him a thumbs up.

The casualness of the gesture veiled the fact that Yuri was just _slayed_.

He wanted it, wanted to do his next exhibition skate to it -- something ice cold, something to match the way it made him feel.

When it was over, he waited impatiently for Beka to finish packing up but, in the end, just climbed into the booth himself. He flung his arms around his friend.

“Where did you even _find_ that song?” He asked, finally, pulling back.

Beka was smiling.

“ _I_ remixed that one,” he said, and then, when Yuri just looked at him with his mouth open, he raised his eyebrows and added, “You think all I do is turn up and play some songs that I happened to find?”

Yuri didn’t get a chance to respond, though, because a ridiculously huge round of vodka shots arrived on a very large tray, which the server said had come from the skating fans in the corner. Beka looked at the tray, and looked back up at the server. “I can’t drink all these, Vada,” he said, finally.

Vada looked over at Yuri. Yuri raised his blue armband at him, wordlessly, in response. Vada looked back at Beka, who motioned for him to put it down, and then waved all his friends to come over.

“It’s very rude, here, to turn down a drink,” he explained to Yuri, as his friends came over. One of them (Yerik? Yuri really had trouble remembering their names, there were so many of them -- how did Otabek have _so many friends_ ) said several phrases in that strange Kazakh/Russian/English slang that they all seemed to slip in and out of, and grabbed a shot glass, downing it as Otabek said, “Please, help me with these. Then I’d better take the rest over.”

Yuri backed up, watching them all toast. Otabek looked so at ease, here, in the low light, surrounded by these unflappable older friends of his, that seemed to just take everything in their stride.

He watched Otabek throw his head back once, twice, three times. The way his adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. The way his hands made the glasses look so small.

Beka was saying something to him and he hadn’t even registered it. He felt a little like he was blushing, though he couldn’t have said why, and hoped it wasn’t visible in the low light.

“What did you say?” He asked.

“I said, would you mind coming with me, to see the skating fans in the corner?”

“Of course,” he said, automatically.

Yakov would have been proud of him. _Victor_ would have been proud of him.

Beka picked up the tray and they went over.

Yuri found Otabek’s fans much more relaxing than his own, however. Beka had just said, “Please, friends, you were too generous. Drink with me,” and somehow it was all ok -- they just drank with him, toasting and laughing.

Despite the fact that they’d come to this club just for Otabek, nobody was being weird, or screaming, or grabbing at him. Or at Yuri.

Yuri was waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it never did. These people were just wanting to shake Yuri’s hand, or chatting about normal things, mostly questions about how he was finding Almaty. He replied that the rink had impressed him and they had all seemed delighted. Then the drinks were gone and he had Beka were just … allowed to leave.

His own fans _never_ just let him leave.

“How are your fans so _normal_?” Yuri asked, once he was sure they were out of earshot.

Beka smiled at him, his eyes flitting over his face.

“I’m not as pretty as you, Yura,” he responded, finally, and then next thing Yuri knew, Yerik and some of the others were grabbing them and making them dance like crazy people to the first song in the next DJ’s set. Then the second song.

Yuri found that he didn’t mind. The restless energy seemed to be back at this point and he was happy to get it out -- although, not being as alcohol-fuelled as the others, he did need a break by the third song.

He motioned to Beka that he was going to the bar and got a double thumbs up. He wondered how much of that vodka Otabek had drunk. It hadn’t seemed that much, but it was clearly double-thumbs-up much.

Yuri kept an eye on Beka and his friends while he queued at the bar, shaking out the half-bun that Masha had given him self-consciously, thinking it must look a bit worse for wear after all that jumping around. He watched them dancing, idly unraveling the twisty braid up the side of his head.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Yuri didn’t realise the voice was speaking to him until it repeated itself directly into his ear. He jerked away and turned to find a man -- a _man_ man, about Victor’s age maybe, and even taller -- leering at him.

“Thank you, no,” he said, automatically, experiencing that feeling again, like a fish out of water. Worse, the guy looked like he was going to argue. Mila had saved him the last time he’d been in this situation; Yuri tried to remember how she had gotten the guy to leave, but couldn’t. Possibly she had just picked him up herself.

“I need to get back to my friends,” he added, going to leave, hoping the excuse would be enough, but his extra words seemed to have done more harm than good.

“Your accent,” the guy said. “You’re Russian, huh? Are you too proud to drink with locals?”

“Hey, Yuri!” It was one of Beka’s friends; she had played the set before he had. Before Yuri could remember what her name was, she was threading her arm through his and tugging him away, saying, “We were wondering where you had gotten to.”

“I just wanted some water,” Yuri said, risking a glance out of the corner of his eye back at the bar. The guy was staring at them as they walked away.

“Well, you looked like you wanted to be rescued,” she said quietly, the hint of a smile in her voice. Yuri looked sharply at her, but nothing seemed malicious in her demeanour. “He was actually quite handsome,” she added, the smile hitting her eyes, now.

“He was so _old_.”

“Oh, I don’t know. What’s too old?”

Yuri blinked at her. He’d never put a number on it before. “I don’t know,” he said. He thought about the successful couples he knew. There weren’t many. “No more than three or four years,” he added.

Anara -- that was her name, he remembered now -- sat him down and put a bottle of water in his hand. “Good,” she said, mystifyingly, looking at something over his shoulder. “I’m pretty sure I know someone who’ll be pleased to hear that.”

Yuri turned to see what she was looking at, to see Otabek talking to someone on the edge of the dance floor, a few metres away. He broke into a smile at something they said, and Yuri watched the corners of his mouth turn up, and blushed scarlet himself, understanding breaking over him in a rush.

Anara was saying something else now, and he looked back at her, keen to hear anything she had to add.

“I think he was waiting until you were older,” she said. “But you look to me like you know your own mind. You’ve barely taken your eyes off him all night, anyway,” she added, patting him on the arm and picking up her bag. “Golden Boy!” she yelled. “I’m off!”

Yuri watched her kiss Otabek on the cheek before heading back to him. She touched his arm again. “It was nice to meet you, Yuri. Find me online, da?”

Yuri nodded mutely and then looked back over to Otabek. He stared for so long, Beka noticed, and came over.

“Everything all right?”

Yuri looked at him. Looked at his strong jawline and his mouth and those serious eyes and he couldn’t actually bear this restless feeling in his chest for a second longer. It had gotten heavier now, like it was choking him, and it was meeting a nervous feeling in his stomach that was spurring him into action.

A lot of words could be used to describe Yuri; “indecisive” and “cowardly” were not amongst them.

So, he grabbed his best friend’s hand and marched off to the first door away from the main room that he could see -- one that he’d seen Ivan and some of the bar staff use. It was marked “private” and since privacy sounded good right now, he pushed it open with every entitled instinct he had (and he had a lot of them) and pulled Beka through after him.

It led through to a softly lit corridor. Some other doors were visible but they seemed redundant. They had a modicum of quiet and discretion, and that was really all Yuri had wanted.

Yuri let Otabek go, and turned around.

They looked at each other for a moment.

Then Yuri spoke before he’d had a second to think about how he was going to go about this, what he was going to say.

“Your friend Anara told me she thinks you like me.”

“Then she is… annoyingly perceptive.”

Yuri didn’t know what he’d expected. He hadn’t given himself time to expect anything, really, but -- Otabek had said it so casually, so confidently, that Yuri took a second to process it. He didn’t look thrown, or put on the spot, or defensive, he just kind of looked ... resigned.

God, Otabek was so _cool_. And he was just looking at Yuri now, and Yuri realized his mouth was gaping open, so he picked his jaw off the floor and went on. “She said she thought you were waiting. Until I was older.”

Ah. _Now_ , Beka looked a little thrown.

“That’s not what I was waiting for. I was -- I guess I was waiting for you to be … ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“Yuri. Relationships haven’t even been on your scope since we became friends in Barcelona. You’re so focused on competing, and you were still finishing school and I didn’t want to distract you. Plus I didn’t know how you felt. I didn’t want you to be … embarrassed and think we couldn’t be friends any more. So, ok, I like you. A lot. But if you don’t feel the same way it’s not a big deal.”

“What if I do feel the same way?”

“Then I think you kept that a better secret than I did. Clearly.”

Otabek was doing that wry smile he did, when he was laughing at himself. He didn’t do it very often and it made Yuri smile too, as he replied, “I did. Even I didn’t know until five minutes ago.”

“And now?”

“Now I think I want you to kiss me.”

Otabek looked at him for a second or two, looking as close to startled as he ever did. Then his smile got wider.

“No,” he said.

Now it was Yuri’s turn to stare.

“What?” He said, and mentally gave himself points that when it came out, it sounded more pissed off than surprised.

“I’m not going to kiss you unless you’re my boyfriend.”

Yuri looked at Otabek appraisingly, hoping it was hiding the way that his heart was thumping in his chest. “I can’t agree to that until I've kissed you. What if you’re a horrible kisser?”

“Then you can break up with me right afterwards. At least I will be able to say we took a crack at it. And you won’t go back to Russia in two days without us having sorted out what we’re going to be to each other from now on.”

Yuri felt like his smile was probably too happy and felt self-conscious. He twitched it into a smirk.

“Deal,” he said.

And Otabek smiled more, and kissed him.

Yuri felt like his heart was going to explode.

And that was how they ended up making out up against a wall in a hallway, in a nightclub in Almaty.

Which was where Otabek’s friend Sergey found them a few minutes later.

They were made aware of his presence when they heard the clicking of a phone camera.

Beka and Yuri looked over, made eye contact with his cocky face, and then chased him halfway back to the dancefloor before losing him in the crowd.

“You know he’ll post those,” Otabek said, apologetically.

Yuri thought about it for a second or two.

“Good,” he said, finally. Beka looked at him curiously.

“We won’t have to tell anyone,” Yuri explained. “We won’t have to initiate any embarrassing conversations about our change in status.”

Beka’s face relaxed slightly. “Now,” Yuri added, pulling on his hands. “Come and dance with me, boyfriend.”

They deliberately didn’t check their phones for a while (Yuri actually turned his off, not wanting to wait for the exact moment when his rinkmates found out).

It transpired, however, that Sergey did NOT post the photo he had snapped of them kissing in the hallway. He texted that one to Beka privately, with the message, “A commemorative photo. You’re welcome.”

No, Sergey actually posted something far worse, in retrospect. It must have been snapped just as they realized that they had company, and broke apart. They were in profile, millimeters apart from each other, their eyes still closed. Yuri was up against the wall, with his far hand on Beka’s face and the other just sort of resting against his chest.

It all looked a bit like an edgy ad for perfume or expensive jeans or something: disheveled, dimly lit and provocative.

Pretty fucking hot, basically.

Sergey also posted a second shot. Otabek and Yuri had turned their heads to him by that point, and seen the camera. Otabek’s intimidating blank face was back; Yuri had murder in his eyes.

Sergey had tagged them in both shots and captioned them -- in both Russian and English, just to make sure nobody missed anything -- with, “oh dear. I seem to have interrupted something ;)”

If the shot of Yuri hopping on the back of Otabek’s motorbike back when he was 15 spread like wildfire, it was nothing compared to those pictures from the nightclub.

It would have been one thing, if Sergey had only posted shots of them making out; but the fact that the first one was so sexy and the second one was so reactive just made them that much more interesting for their fans to share and to comment on, and within a few hours, the international media clearly felt the same way. It probably helped that the skating fans in the corner had innocently posted a number of photos of them dancing together over the night, as well.

For now, however, Yuri and Otabek were determinedly enjoying spending the night with their new boyfriends.


	4. Boyfriends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we have post-clubbing snacks, and Yuri's second day in Almaty. Also some flirting.
> 
> I tried making this chapter less fluffy but it didn’t stick.
> 
> Just like with the last chapter, I did sooo much googling to try and get this bit of the story right but since I’ve never been to Almaty, I may have fucked something up. If you spot anything, please (gently) let me know.
> 
> Анам - “mum”

It was very, very late (or very early) when Yuri let himself switch his phone back on, while he was queuing for a post-clubbing snack.

Technically, Beka was getting them both snacks, and Yuri was standing around nearby playing with his phone, but whatever. Either way, his _boyfriend_ handed him something wrapped in paper comprised largely of lamb and carbs and then kissed him on his temple. The combination of those two actions got Beka a one-armed hug around his waist, while Yuri scrolled through the last of his notifications. Mostly, he had just been tagged in stuff that was more _about_ him than addressed _towards_ him -- it was how he finally saw which pictures, exactly, had been posted.

Given that it had been quite late when said photographs were posted, they most likely wouldn’t be seen in Russia until the morning.

He switched his phone back off and chomped into whatever it was that Beka had handed him.

It was _delicious_.

He chewed it greedily, wondering if he should play it cool (they were still with a few of Beka’s friends, after all) but then just went with his gut feeling and grabbed Beka’s shirtfront (well, hoodie front) and planted a fierce, appreciative kiss on his mouth.

“What was that for?” Beka asked, looking dazed (his friends were whooping, but Yuri didn’t pay them any mind), once he had let him go.

“This is _so good_ ,” he said, waving his food in Beka’s face before taking another covetous bite and making a mental note to tell Mila, whenever she sent her teasing text tomorrow, that the next they went clubbing, they were damned well going somewhere like he’d been tonight, and afterwards, they were getting _food_.

They shared a taxi home with Otabek’s friend Yerik. This meant Yuri and Otabek definitely couldn’t spend the ride home kissing and Yuri eventually decided he was relieved about that, despite the temptation, as he wasn’t sure how he felt about making out in a taxi -- seemed embarrassing as well as rude to the driver.

When they got inside, Otabek offered him first go in the bathroom again. Yuri found himself wondering, as he brushed his teeth, if they were supposed to do this bit of getting ready for bed _together_ , now. Was this a thing? Did couples brush their teeth together?

He watched himself for the first time as an outsider might, as he brushed his teeth. It really wasn’t very… attractive. Or, endearing, or whatever.

He was clear on one thing, at least: he did not want Otabek to see him spit toothpaste into a sink at this early point in their relationship.

However, when he wandered out to see Beka all changed for bed, in a comfy-looking top and sweat pants, and the bedding there on the couch, he was sure of one thing that was definitely happening tonight.

He made the necessary arrangements while Beka had his own turn in the bathroom, then changed into his sleeping gear (black and leopard print, of course) and hopped innocently into bed.

Otabek knocked on the bedroom door (which Yuri had deliberately left wide open) shortly afterwards.

“Yuri.” Otabek said, like he wanted to sound reproving but was too amused.

“ ’Sup?” Yuri asked, playing with his phone and not looking over.

“Did you steal my pillow?”

“No, I just put it where it should be. No way is my boyfriend sleeping on the couch tonight. It’s not like we had a fight.”

Otabek looked at him steadily for a moment or two. Then he said, “I’ve been your boyfriend for less than four hours. You don’t get to tell me where to sleep yet.”

“You told _me_ where I had to sleep.”

“That’s completely different, you were my guest.”

“And now I’m your boyfriend. And I’m going to be in _your_ bed tonight. Get in your bed with me where you belong, boyfriend. I’m tired and I want to go to sleep.”

Otabek just looked at him for a moment. Then he let out a breath that was almost a laugh and ran his hand up the back of his undercut in that way he did sometimes, when Yuri had completely surprised him and he didn’t quite know what to say.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re going to win every argument we ever have,” Otabek grumbled as he settled in next to Yuri.

“Because I’m good at winning,” Yuri said, kissing his cheek. “Goodnight, boyfriend.”

 

*******

 

Yuri woke up before Otabek the next morning. It’s not like he had been the one doing vodka shots, after all.

It was much later than he usually woke up, but not ridiculously. Mostly, Yuri was awake because he was hungry.

He looked over. Waking up to Otabek sleeping next to him was kind of surreal.

Otabek was his boyfriend now.

He had a boyfriend.

And it was Otabek.

Yuri realized he was smiling.

Even in sleep, Otabek’s face was serious, and _handsome_. Yuri wanted to take a picture but he wasn’t sure if that would be cool.

In the end, Yuri took the picture, resolving to show it to Otabek when he woke up and ask him if it was ok to have taken it, or if he wanted him to delete it. Then he slipped out of the bedroom as quietly as he could, in search of food.

He was making oatmeal in the kitchen (as per Otabek’s meal plan, which was on the fridge) a bit later when a hand snuck around his waist.

“Breakfast is nearly ready,” he said, leaning back into Otabek.

Otabek tightened his grip for a second in reply and then said, in a scratchy sort of voice, “I’ll make coffee.”

Yuri only drank coffee if it was so sweet it was practically a dessert, but since Otabek knew that, Yuri put the mug to his lips trustingly when Beka handed it to him.

He was not disappointed. It tasted of caramel and white chocolate and he sipped it happily.

“How’s your head?” He asked, unsympathetically, handing Otabek a bowl.

“Not too bad,” Beka replied, his mouth twitching at Yuri’s unsympathy as they sat down to eat. “I really didn’t have that much to drink. I’ll be fit to skate later.”

“At the Medeu?”

“Yes. No way we can miss it. I still think it was the only reason Yakov let you come at all.”

Yuri nodded. “He actually looked happy when he said you’d mentioned it to him.”

Otabek’s mouth twitched. “First time he’s ever smiled at me, when I told him. I wonder if he ever skated there back in the day.”

They chit-chatted idly while they ate, wondering what would have happened to their own relationship if Kazakhstan hadn’t left the USSR.

“Maybe you would have stayed in St Petersburg instead of going to America.”

“Maybe _you_ would have come down to Almaty instead of St Petersburg.”

It would not be unreasonable to say that the two of them frittered away almost the entire rest of the morning. They listened to music, Yuri insisting Beka play him more songs he had remixed himself, and then ones by the DJs he had met last night.

They also finally gave in and checked their phones. Beka’s notifications were minimal, since his hatred of social media was well known, while Yuri’s were primarily screaming (mostly good, some bad) on social media from his angels.

Mila was the only rinkmate who messaged him, and though smug, she was surprisingly restrained. She mostly seemed to just want to make sure he knew that he and Beka had made the online tabloids. And that the _Daily Mail_ had called Yakov for comment, even though his response to them was always the same -- to scream at them quite comprehensively before slamming the phone down.

He considered calling Yakov and dismissed the thought. But if somewhere that mainstream was reporting on them (god, didn’t they have anything _better_ to do? He checked their website scathingly to see if he’d even ever been in the _Daily Mail_ for actual _skating_ reasons. Turned out that he had, extensively; it still didn’t absolve them as far as he was concerned) then he knew who he did have to call.

“I should probably warn Grandpa,” he said to Beka. “Do you mind if I use the bedroom?”

Beka held up his own phone and said, “Masha’s just texted to warn me my mother’s about to call, so go for it.”

Yuri’s phone call was shorter than Otabek’s. Unlike Mrs Altin, his grandfather hadn’t seen anything yet (he wasn’t really big on computers) and seemed to appreciate hearing it from Yuri first, until it twigged that his grandson’s private life was being treated like public fodder, when he switched to gruff indignation, then to asking him if he was ok.

Yuri reassured his grandfather as best he could and promised to call again when he was safe home in Russia.

It had been embarrassing, but it was over. Unlike Otabek’s call, which he could tell was still going on in the next room.

Yuri rolled over in the bed. Otabek’s side smelt like him. He could hear snatches of the phone conversation happening in the next room and both wanted to give Beka privacy but also desperately wanted to know what his mother was saying. It sounded like Beka was just reassuring her. Patiently.

“Why would my sponsors care, анам? I’m allowed to have a personal life … Well, we were in a deserted staff-only area, I don’t know how much more discreet you wanted us to be … It’s not even that interesting a story, анам; something actually scandalous will happen and everybody will forget about it. Now, Yuri and I have to go train. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Beka came in and flopped onto the bed next to him. After a moment, he said, “I didn’t really imagine our first kiss as ending up so … public.”

“Here,” Yuri said, scooting closer. “Our second can be nice and private.”

“That was our third kiss,” Beka corrected, after some good, solid kissing had occurred. “You kissed me on the street for feeding you after we left the club.”

“That one didn’t count,” Yuri said, kissing the spot under Otabek’s ear where his jaw ended.

“Did too,” Beka replied, tilting his head to give Yuri better access. “It meant you weren’t breaking up with me for being a terrible kisser or for having friends who post revealing photos on social media. Sergey messaged before, by the way. He said he’s sorry.”

“Really? Why?”

“He said he didn’t realise there would be this much fuss. He didn’t understand how famous we are. Well, _you_ are. He’s made his account private until this all goes away.”

Yuri just shrugged. He still didn’t feel particularly mad, which he knew was out of character for him, but ... he was so happy and there was nothing he wanted to hide about them being together. Eventually, he just mused, “I wonder if your sister will add those shots to her book.”

“Oh, that _book_ ,” Beka said, breaking into one of his rare grins. “I’ve tried telling my mother to _look_ at the magazines before handing them over to Masha but she just says everybody’s proud of me.”

“Proud of how good you look with your _shirt off_.”

“No, those ones were of _you_ , Yura. Don’t think she didn’t show them to me.”

“Ah, see anything you liked?”

“Yes, I did.”

That got Beka pushed onto his back and given a big kiss, with Yuri’s long hair falling all over the place and getting in the way and making them laugh.

“Let’s go skating,” Otabek said.

And they did.

Yuri had known of the Medeu rink, but that didn’t really compare to actually skating there. Walking in felt very … iconic.

Skating at an outdoor rink was strange, and glare-y, but it was also kind of fun. The inclusiveness of it helped. You couldn’t book early or late sessions the way that professional skaters did at a normal rink; you just skated with everyone else, while pop music played over the speakers.            

There were little kids and couples holding hands. Yuri kind of wanted to do a lap holding Otabek’s hand but that seemed kind of embarrassing and stupid. They weren’t on a _date_. They were _working_. Plus they’d already been recognised by the handful of other competitive skaters there. So, Yuri determinedly started running through his warm ups and his jumps, then moved through his current free skate routine as best he could.

A particularly step sequence near the start needed more polish, according to Victor. Meanwhile Yakov wasn’t happy with a bit in the middle, and Mila had said something about his hands looking too stiff at the end.

Yuri didn’t notice the number of people that had just stopped skating themselves to watch him, moving over to the sides of the rink, until he finished and the applause started.

He held his hands out to acknowledge it and looked around for Otabek.

He was clapping too, a fond look on his face. Yuri skated over to him.

“We really need to go somewhere in this city of yours and _not_ make a scene,” he said. “Your turn.”

They ate a late lunch up in the seating area when they were done, watching everyone skate and chatting to some speed skaters that Otabek knew, who had come up to say hello; and then they left the rink and raced each other up a huge flight of steps (Otabek lost, mostly because he was much more concerned than Yuri was about not knocking over tourists) up the side of the Medeu Dam. They took pink-cheeked selfies at the top, with the mountains and the skating rink behind them.

Yuri posted one of them and tried not to be suspicious over the high numbers of likes it immediately got.

A session at Otabek’s gym came next.

There may have been a little bit of flirting.

There was also a disgusting green post-work-out smoothie that he made Otabek “fix” with practically half a jar of honey before he would drink it.

“I told you we were going to need to eat vegetables today,” Otabek said wryly.

“What disgusting thing are we having for _dinner_ if this was our snack?!”

“We should go out for dinner,” Otabek said.

Then he smiled with actual _teeth_ showing, and added, “It’s your last night here. We should go on a _date_.”

It sounded so cheesy that Yuri would have scoffed, but he would never scoff at Beka, especially when he actually looked _excited_.

And really, they _should_ go on a date.

Yuri had no idea how the hell you went on a date.

“What did you have in mind?” He asked.

“How stereotypical do you want?” Otabek said, “We could do dinner and a movie. There’s a steakhouse nearby we could go to, and it’s in the same complex as a cinema. Or if there’s nothing new you wanted to see we could just come home and put a DVD on here and eat popcorn on the couch. Although that seems a bit of an old-married-couple date.”

Yuri thought about the number of times he’d been dragged to (or invited himself along to) random meals and random DVDs with Victor and Yuuri*. He realised he actually quite liked old-married-couple-type dates.

“No, that sounds perfect,” he said. “Why, is it not cool enough for you, DJ Altynyn?”

Beka pulled out a cosy-looking throw-rug from somewhere and tossed it on the couch, in response. “You watch how cool I look cuddling you here on this couch,” he threatened.

“Davai,” Yuri said, poking a finger in his chest.

And that's exactly what they ended up doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I am (unsubtly) referring here to the masses of official art that’s been released of Victor, Yuri and Yuuri eating together, post-series, at all sorts of random places -- just in case anyone reading this hasn’t seen it all (I know everyone on AO3 doesn’t spend their lives stalking YOI blogs)


	5. Last day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys cram in some kissing and sightseeing before Yuri has to leave.

It would have been his last morning in Almaty, except that Yuri Plisetsky no longer existed.

He had melted into Otabek Altin’s bed, where he was being slowly, calmly and comprehensively kissed into oblivion.

He thoroughly endorsed this turn of events.

Last night’s date had been nice, but it had turned out that cuddling on the couch had been a bit _too_ cosy, after the combination of their heavy dinner, the day’s exercise and the sleep debt that they’d earned themselves the night before. Yuri had fallen asleep during the DVD they’d tried to watch.

He would have been embarrassed about this if Beka hadn’t done the same.

They’d groggily made their way to bed and slept soundly. The two young men had set an early alarm the next day, because they had a tight schedule before Yuri’s flight home. But before they got up, Yuri had implied that something had been missing from their date night and his boyfriend, always the gentleman, had obliged. Until the “we really do need to leave soon” alarm went off on his phone.

Beka groaned and rolled onto his back.

Yuri blinked experimentally and stretched to see if his limbs still worked. Turned out, they did.

“How about we just _say_ we went to Charyn Canyon?” he said, smoothing out his hair.

“And you didn’t post a single selfie? Nobody would believe us.”

They went and borrowed Otabek’s mother’s car for the trip, since the canyon was nearly three hours out of Almaty **;** not too comfortable on a motorbike.

“My son,” his mother had said tartly, when they arrived. “Please introduce us to your _boyfriend_.”

The drive from Almaty didn’t seem like it took three hours. Otabek had put on one of his playlists and he told Yuri all about it. Yuri chatted about his plans for university next year, and the details of his athletic scholarship. Beka pointed out various landmarks as they passed.

They pulled over at the half-way mark to stretch their legs and possibly made out a bit more.

Just a bit.

Yuri fell asleep in the last hour of the drive, waking up to Beka parking the car.

“Sorry,” he said. His boyfriend smiled and kissed him in response.

Charyn Canyon was like nothing Yuri had ever seen before. It looked a bit like pictures Yuri had seen of the Grand Canyon in the US, but dusted in snow, since this was Kazakhstan in December, after all. Mostly, it was like some sort of alien planet, where they grew their castles organically rather than built them. It was beautiful.

“Wow,” Yuri breathed, and Otabek smiled a little.

“It’s a shame you didn’t come in summer. You’re not really getting the full effect, now, with the snow and the lower light.”

“You’ll have to bring me back, then,” Yuri said, shyly, looking at Beka sideways.

Otabek had smiled a little and nodded. Then he added, “But we’re sleeping in next time.”

They went for a long walk, and then ate the picnic Mrs Altin had unexpectedly packed in the car for them. There was enough food for at least four people, including a whole plate of baursak, which Otabek pushed towards Yuri.

“I don’t really eat them,” he explained. “She must have included them for you. She doesn’t miss a trick, you did pretty much eat them _all_ the other night.”

That led to Yuri throwing one of the pastries at Otabek, which led to more making out.

They headed straight to the airport from the canyon. They didn’t talk much on the drive this time, and Yuri fell asleep again (“all those carbs,” Otabek had chided, and dodged this time before Yuri could shove him with his shoulder).

There was no one else in the stupidly fancy frequent flyers lounge apart from them and a couple of tired-looking women in business attire. Yuri pulled Otabek by the hand to a couch the furthest corner away from them, and proceeded to shove him onto it and then sprawl all over him, burying his face in his shoulder.

Otabek smoothed out and stroked his hair for a few moments, and then, when Yuri made no signs of intending to move ever again, asked, “Aren’t you going to pile a plate full of food?”

It was a fair question. It was Yuri’s usual modus operandi when presented with a frequent flyers lounge buffet. But Yuri just lifted his head to look at his friend-turned-boyfriend.

“Pyeongchang,” he said, ignoring the question. “That’s the next time we’ll be in the same city?”

Otabek looked at him for a moment, then nodded.

Yuri buried his face back into Otabek’s shoulder.

“That’s almost two months away,” he said, his words muffled into his boyfriend’s shirt. He lifted his head again. “You better message me every day.”

“We’ve messaged nearly every day for years.”

“Well, you better _skype_ me every day.”

Otabek kissed his forehead. “Deal,” he said.

Which got him a kiss on the mouth, and a tight squeeze, and another kiss.

“Speaking of Pyeongchang,” Otabek said, reaching into his backpack. “I got you a going away present. Close your eyes.”

Yuri closed them, smiling. He felt something light and fluffy in his lap.

“Ok, you can open them now,” Beka said.

He recognized the plushie right away; it was Soohorang the White Tiger, one of the mascots for the upcoming Winter Games.

He hugged it tight, grinning. “Take a picture!” He demanded, thrusting his phone at Otabek. He posted it right away, with the caption “Going away present from @otabek-altin; we’re coming for you #Pyeongchang”.

Then he shoved it under his arm and went and piled a plate full of carbs and meat products.

Beka was smiling a little at his phone when Yuri got back. He held it up for him to see; someone had already commented on the picture Yuri had just posted, with “@otabek-altin got a tiger for his tiger!!!!”

Yuri choked on the biscuit he was eating.

“Easy, tiger,” Beka said, patting him on the back.

“Go and make yourself a disgusting green juice,” Yuri said, shoving him away. “There’s kale and everything.”

They ate, and chatted, and then … it was time for Yuri to get on the plane.

He considered being cool about it. He really did. But then Beka hugged him before he handed over his boarding pass and he ended up clinging to his boyfriend like he wasn’t going to be able to do it again for months.

Which he wasn’t.

He might have looked at that picture he had taken, of Otabek sleeping, for a while on the plane home.

He had asked Otabek about it when he remembered; he had just smiled and told him to keep the photo as long as he liked.

Forever. Forever sounded good to Yuri.


End file.
